


Redfield

by HostisHumaniGeneris



Series: Writing Rainbow Fills [5]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Bad Decisions, F/M, Sex as Grief Processing, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:03:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23009020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HostisHumaniGeneris/pseuds/HostisHumaniGeneris
Summary: Tomorrow, he might regret tonight.That’d be tomorrow’s problem.
Relationships: Chris Redfield/Claire Redfield
Series: Writing Rainbow Fills [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1763248
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36
Collections: Writing Rainbow Red





	Redfield

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cricket_aria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cricket_aria/gifts).



He sat on the bed, feet on the ground, while she tossed and turned behind him. He just had to get up, walk on over to the couch, and sleep there. Because somehow that was _better_ if they only shared a bed for _some_ of the night, not all.

He sighed.

They’d never figured out a good way of dealing with the aftermath; awkward as Hell, they usually ignored it in the cold light of day; what happened last night was always something they wouldn’t talk about.

Thinking about it? Wasn’t something he could avoid.

He looked over his shoulder, at Claire. She mumbled something in her sleep, and he saw her bare shoulders tense up. She slept nude. At least, she did when they shared a night together. He took in a deep breath, turned his head to look back to the floor, and sighed.

This wasn’t right.

He’d like to say he had no idea how it started. Like he’d just woken up buried halfway inside his little sister. But that first time was committed to memory. Every inch of her skin, those clipped little moans she let out, the feel of her nails digging into his shoulders. Her warm and wet and wrapped around him.

As clear as that was the sickness in the pit of his stomach as he had held her. He’d taken advantage of his _sister_. She wasn’t helpless—she could handle herself. But he was the older brother here—he should’ve kept his head. She was upset over ‘Steve’, brooding over it. When they were alone and safe someplace temperate, and began to take stock of everything they lost, and she cried, and he held her, and then… she kissed him and pressed against him… he should’ve put the brakes on.

Instead, he had her pinned on a mattress, helping her out of her vest.

When they were done, the mature thing would be to pause, reflect on just what the Hell was wrong with himself, and sort things out. Both had been through Hell and back, almost literally. They were adults. They could just talk things over and sort out the mess they made.

Instead, the two of them ran away, her joining TerraSave, him, the B.S.A.A. Fighting the good fight against bioterror—completely separate from one another. Awkward phone conversations had them dancing around the topic; they usually relied on the Burtons for updates about what the other was up to because _talking_ to the other would mean confronting that.

Some nights he couldn’t help but think of that night, and feel the rush of self-loathing and arousal all over again. He never found out if she did, too.

They gave one another a wide berth, even when it would be simple, even when it would be _expected_ for them to meet up. When they were in the same area of operation. He could justify it—he wasn’t a great brother, all things considered, even separate from what he’d done to her after Antarctica. He wasn’t communicative, he hadn’t even _warned_ her to stay away from Raccoon City when he ditched town. So keeping their distance was characteristic.

Then Jill ‘died’.

Claire was at the funeral. And… he couldn’t keep away from her. There were plenty of familiar faces, but he gravitated towards her. They spent more time together for the three weeks than they had in the past few years. And it ended with her riding him while giving those little moans.

He immediately thrust himself back into work, trying to figure out how it happened again. _Why_ it happened. He had no luck with that. They were just fucked up, it appeared.

They continued to prove that on the increasingly frequent incidents they ran into each other. They weren’t avoiding one another, and… when one of them needed to vent, or cry, or scream, the other would be there. Sometimes it was just healthy like that, screaming, crying, venting. Other times, he forced a rapid-fire series of moans out of her while her legs wrapped behind his back.

They put way too much creativity and thought into it anymore to just be some stupid impulse. He wasn’t sure when it morphed from trying to grab onto something _real,_ hold someone while the world rotted around them and they lost so much to just something to do. But it did.

It should’ve ended after Kijuju.

But it didn’t.

He never asked her _why_. What she got out of this—if it was just sex, there were plenty of options for her. Sometimes he tried to think why she kept this up, and it would turn around because he’d wonder why _he_ kept it up. She was good in bed, of course, but she was his _sister_. He never could come up with a good reason why… and when he was pressing her into a mattress, grunting and panting, it didn’t matter much.

Both of them kept picking up scars and trauma. After what happened on that Island prison, that _other_ Island prison… once Moira was home, safe and sound at least… they met up. Whether or not she was aware or not, it was almost a mirror image of their first time, as far as Chris remembered it. It was Heaven and Hell mashed together in one night.

Sometimes, like tonight, he thought how sick it was they’d kept this up for a decade. She was his _sister_. She was also _amazing_. He took a deep breath and stood. He’d sleep on the couch tonight. The morning was always awkward; maybe less now—they’d still sidestep any discussion of the night’s fun, but Claire’d make breakfast (she never appreciated his attempts), and they’d joke and talk about trivial things.

A gasp drew his attention. He looked over at Claire, as she thrashed and tensed. Nightmares were pretty common, all things considered. He had his own. He could get up and go to the couch—she’d be fine.

He laid on the bed, rolling onto his side. He draped and arm around Claire’s waist and pulled her close. He groped for the blanket—she had a habit of thrashing it off of her when having a nightmare. He wrapped it around them and held her.

“Chris?” She was confused, not agitated. He’d woken her up.

“You were having a nightmare.” He said, kissing the back of her neck.

“Hnnn.” She let out an inarticulate grumble and sidled back, pressing against him,, shifting a little. They laid still for a while, skin-to-skin contact, neither talking. Questions ran through his head but died before they reached his tongue. “Love you, Chris.”

“Love you too, Claire.” For whatever reason, he didn’t feel sick anymore.

Tomorrow, he might regret tonight.

That’d be tomorrow’s problem.

**Author's Note:**

> To the requestor, your tags were very interesting. I wish I had a little more time to flesh this out more (because damn, those tags were fun), but I hope you enjoy this!


End file.
